


somebody sing me a lullaby

by pro_se



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: But also, Comfort, F/F, Mania, Mentions of self-harm, Other, gender neutral reader, i feel it important to note that i wrote this with my pronouns she/her in mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 13:29:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12749271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pro_se/pseuds/pro_se
Summary: Jacob calls it hot-blood, Evie calls it mania.





	somebody sing me a lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: it’s the mania, mania, mania,
> 
> also hear me chanting new blood new blood for the ac reader specific audience wink wonk

It’s almost impossible to find you amidst smoggy London, lurking with the worst of the black-tattooed corvids, and tossing your last pence to the caged fights you’re not allowed to participate (even in your mania, you remember the concern etched on Evie’s face after you returned with blue and purple painting your skin, and you won’t submit her to that again).

It’s almost impossible to convince your shaking and rambling personality to board the freight train hideout, so instead Evie cuffs you over the head and takes you to your apartment.

The two of you stumble on the creaking, paint-chipped fire escapes and you seize her wrist with sudden urgency. Evie stares wide-eyed, but you only lazily trace her freckles with a gloved hand. The Assassin gently grasps your hand, and with a timid smile, ushers you out of the midnight chill.

She breathes life to the fireplace, and the conversation.

“I’ve talked it over with Jacob and some of the other Rooks,” Evie says quietly as you throw the overcoat and gloves carelessly on the unmade cot. “We suggest that you stay on the train until the mania passes. Focus on documents and sending out reports, instead of being on the field.”

You don’t answer, eyes transfixed somewhere on the cramped bookshelf.

Evie rises, whispers of her cloak brushing against the floor. “I always tell you, it’s your decision. You get to decide how you want us to help with the mania. Given your track record--”

“What track record?”

She trails after you, frequently bending down and picking up a discarded book or candle holder. The apartment’s a mess, but it’s your mess, and Evie refrains from commenting on the sight.

“The track record where after you go out and gamble and pick a fight with every crook on the street,” Evie Frye says, “and then you come home to me and cry and cry.”

You pause in your search for something, anything, nothing. “Yeah, that sounds like me,” you murmur.

Evie links her hands with yours before you have a chance to bolt away in the small apartment. Cat and mouse, Assassin and Rook. It’s a game, but her tone levy reason and seriousness in the night. “How can we help you?” she asks softly.

You can’t hold her tender, blue gaze for more than a few moments. She cares so much. It’s almost not fair that she’s in love with you. Why does she have to care so much about you?

Jacob calls it hot-blood, Evie calls it mania.

Regardless, you destroy yourself until the early mornings when you realize by the unlit tallow, you haven’t slept for two, maybe three days. Nails untrimmed or bleeding; one or the other. Clothes dishevelled and sometimes stained with blood; sometimes it’s yours. Jacob biting back remarks because you’re an absolute savage with the blade and pistol, and because Evie disapproves; in the next breath he’s stolen your breath and whipped you in a mindless fight.

On the quieter nights when Evie holds you tight and reassures you that she still has to show you all of London before you die, the younger Frye slips into the carriage. He sits and sips tea and picks at his scabs, and suggests a million and one things to do before you die.

By the fourth episode, the current one, he refuses to brawl with you anymore, even if and especially because it’s the quickest way to pull you out of your messy mind. The twins can tolerate the purplish bruises lacing your skin and corvid tattoo; what they can’t handle is the way you look at them, sober and wide-eyed in the morning after.

Your mind is calmer, more dangerous.

And the confession spills from your lips without the emotional distress that echoes in the memories; no, you spit these words at Evie with the fervor of mania:  _ I’m the one to throw the first punch, I’m the one destroying myself, and goddamn if I’m not the one to end my life, instead of some fucking Blighter or Templar-- _

And your trembling hands wind lovingly in her long, dark locks as you confess.

Evie envelops your shaking figure with a crushing hug, tight enough to feel the gauntlets dig into your spine.

“Let me tell you something,” she breathes in your ear. “Let me tell you about how proud I am, how I love your smiles and your laughs, and the way you tuck hair behind your ear. Let me tell you that even if it doesn’t feel like it, this will pass. We deal with it like we always have, and then we start by making sure you don’t spiral anymore.”

She feels the tense muscles of your frame start to slowly relax.

“What are you thinking?”

You close your eyes. “Jacob’s personal record. Station to the Tower. I bet I can beat him.”

“I think so too.”

“You’re only saying that because you love me.”

“I know.” She slowly retreats and studies your face. There are traces of eagerness, frivolity to escape from the confines of the apartment. But there’s exhaustion in the lines of your face and Evie snatches the opportunity to invite you to sit by the fireplace. The warmth, and the way she strokes your hair, allow you to drift into a semblance of calm.

You murmur about something unimportant, something baseless to fill the room with noise other than crackling logs. Occasionally your fingers flex and want to tease the hearth, and Evie manages to draw your attention elsewhere each time. Mania is a difficult demon to smother.

Difficult, but not impossible.


End file.
